


on the line

by meingottlieb



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, Pre-Slash, Violence, featuring the inquisition squad as trolls, oblivious!pining!Varric, or mutual unrequited feelings if you prefer, the inquisitor is a badass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 12:48:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19888078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meingottlieb/pseuds/meingottlieb
Summary: Varric gets poisoned. Somehow, he's the one who ends up sorry.





	on the line

**on the line**

It’s embarrassing, really, how it all plays out. As a man of words and books and all around lack of principle, with history as crass as his tongue, he should have known better. A story is not merely a story, a sword is not merely a sword-- a woman isn’t merely a woman, a man not just a man-- and in this kind of world, where shitstorms are par to the course and best laid plans are fucked from the start, he should have  _ known.  _

“ _ Our medicines have run pretty low,”  _ she’d said, the hay of the Skyhold stables crunching beneath their feet. “ _ Josephine’s arranged a shipment from the Hinterlands, we’re to ensure it reaches our people. So far, all previous shipments have been intercepted. That's where we come in.” _

_“We’re going to escort some herbs, huh?”_ he’d asked, altogether unimpressed even as the edge of his lip had curled. “ _How thrilling._ _Skip to the part where we defend tiny wooden boxes of elfroot from dragons, Inquisitor, those are always my favorite bits.”_

She’d laughed, full and low, a damnable twinkle in her eyes as she'd hoisted a saddle over her shoulder.  _ “You know, Varric, now that you mention it, I believe the rumor is that a band of rebel apostates breaking camp are along the trade route...It seems they’re stealing goats. And herbs.” _

_ “Ah, now we’re getting somewhere, Spitfire. Goat theft, what compelling narrative. I’ll make a storyteller of you yet; your tales will be the clamor of Thedas by the time I’m done with you.” _

_ “Me, an author? Maker save us that day.”  _ She’d barked out a heady laugh then, cheeks flushed merry and shameless, and he’d nearly tripped over a grain bucket watching her head throw back in the motion. “ _ If I put a single word to paper it’d rip a new damn hole in the sky!” _

He’d smirked at her then, cloaking his stare in a tease, and had ignored the embers kindling in his gut.  _ “Now  _ that  _ sounds like a good story.” _

Cut to the Hinterlands, somewhere in the asscrack of Witchwood, where he is lying face first in the dirt with grass in his mouth and an arrow sticking out of his shoulder, and  _ Andraste’s tits  _ does it hurt.

_ Would prefer goat thieves,  _ he thinks, repeatedly, like it will help.  _ Would much prefer goat thieves. _

Apostate mages are never just apostate mages, especially when they’re disguised Red Templars hoping to set up a post in the wrecked camps of beaten apostates, and an arrow is never just an arrow, because the Red Templars always play dirty.

_ Shit,  _ he thinks, even as Blackwall is hauling him to his feet, and he can feel the toxic flames of tainted lyrium in his veins, scalding him black from within, and he thinks he’s going to vomit. Instead, he cocks Bianca in his uninjured shoulder and fires with his left hand, a ruthless laugh spilling from his lips as a bolt strikes the sweet spot of an archer’s elbow, where the armor of the forearm is weak.

He hears an almost guttural swear behind him, and there’s his Spitfire, shooting arcs of violet electricity through the air and sweeping through the trees like she’s fucking untouchable and not a girl with a glowing stick surrounded by swords. Bull is right behind her, mercilessly pommelling the living shit out of any fool that gets too close in showers of gore, and Varric aims again. Brief, choking rage wells in him as an archer raises his bow, pointing it straight at a head of long black hair, and the bastard’s gone as a silver bolt buries itself in his throat in a spray of dark blood. She turns mid-cast, pale eyes meeting his, and she swings her staff towards him as she shouts a spell. He can feel spirit, humming and cool, thrum in his bones, taking the edge off the spitting burn in his shoulder and growing flame in his blood, and beside him Blackwell glows softly with the same effect. 

There’s a surprising number of them; with every fallen Templar another seems to emerge from the trees, and his vision is blurring red in the corners of his eyes. “Shit,” he says aloud, and Blackwell roars his agreement as he sends his broadsword into the dark-plated breast of a Templar coat-of-arms. As the stolen spirit in his body wanes so does his sight; his knees wobble, temporarily, and he can hear the Inquisitor yelling over the clashing of sword and axe and can feel the heat of Immolated flames across his skin as she lights the Templars ablaze. Their screams are encouraging, and Varric squints through scarlet to see Bull bodily--  _ gleefully-- _ stomping an archer into the ground, and he chuckles a bit as one of his knees gives out. The vile flame coursing through him is all-consuming, each quickened pulse of his heart sending waves of red poison scorching through every nerve, every sense.

“Shit,” he says again, more garbled this time, and Blackwell’s fist clamps down hard on his uninjured soldier. More spirit floods through him but it’s not enough, once it’s gone it’ll raze through him until there’s nothing but charred, blackened bone and he's  _ burning  _ and drowning in the smoke--

“ _ Varric--” _

“Poison,” he mumbles out, voice like an avalanche, in case it hasn’t occurred to them, and the blood seeping through his coat is almost cold on the heat of his skin. His other knee buckles, crimson blinding him, and sounds drain away like grey whiskey from a glass. 

_ Didn’t see this one coming. _

“Ow,” he thinks he says, and the fire eats him alive.

xXXx

The world comes back to him all at once, eyes flying open and lead limbs spasming in agony. He swears, loud and rough as he nearly pitches off his cot, and the pounding in his head bellows at the sudden movement. He feels like a prime rib left out on a smoke, his body razed and heavy, and the bell tolls in his head are worthy of a Antivan hangover.

He hears the loud creak of a door and the shuffle of feet and before he can even flinch at the sound a rallying cry of " _ He's awake _ !" assaults him. He winces, resisting the urge to clap his hands over his ears like a fresh recruit on the first morn of training, and rapid footsteps rattle the floor beside him.

"The dead wakes," he hears, and his eyes open and  _ hello fanclub.  _ It seems the entire Inquisition had dashed to his bedside, with Iron Bull filling the doorframe as Dorian tries fruitlessly to squeeze in beside him and Blackwell and Cassandra sitting at the corner table like they've been there the whole time.

"Well, hello," he says, and his voice is well and truly horrific. They're all staring at him, how flattering. "Nice meeting you here. In my quarters."

Silence greets him, almost expectant, when there's a sharp word, indistinct, from outside, and Tiny nearly shoves Sparkler to the floor to clear the doorframe.

"Welcome to the club. Apparently everyone's invited," he says, sitting up when really, he shouldn't, but there she is. She strides in, hands locked on her hips and the line of her shoulders taut.

"I'm honored, really," he continues, voice a rockslide from his ravaged throat. "Had I known you all were such fanatics I would have made guest appearances at meetings. The Varric Tethras fanclub, has a certain ring to it, doesn't it?"

She clears her throat, sharp and curt like an arrow, and it's like a  _ signal.  _ They all practically  _ run  _ from his quarters, Cassandra leading the exodus with Dorian heading last, throwing him a half sympathetic, half wicked glance over his shoulder as he closes the door behind him and if that's not the most worrying thing yet he should be terrified.

"Did you practice that?" he asks, but instead of answering she tosses something at him. Typical. He catches it, dead fingers clumsy, and the glass vial glitters dimly in the low light of his quarters. The liquid within in a nebulous, viscous violet, spinning within its delicate vial almost consciously.

"Take that," she says, voice suspiciously gruff. He eyes her wearily, gaze flickering from the mysterious vial to her uncharacteristically hard look, and he raises an eyebrow. Before he has the chance to question her- or really, give her a hard time- she interrupts him, sharp and quick.

"The lyrium they shot you with was tainted, as you're well aware. That is the antidote. Take a sip of it every hour, until it's completely flushed out of your system. Count yourself lucky it wasn't red."

"What, that's it?" He asks, voice taking an unexpected hard edge, and an irrational sense of irritation sparks at the blunt order in her tone. She never did that; she always managed to cajole him into doing what she wanted. Giving orders wasn't her style, and Inquisitor or no Inquisitor, he wasn't very good at following orders. "No 'You'll be fine, Varric' or 'Hope you like the taste, got it from the ass-end of a dragon, Varric?' I’d heard the bedside manner of the Inquisition was bad, but I didn't expect a lack of gallows humor. That's just depressing."

Her expression does not waver from its cut of stone. The abrupt coldness in her eyes is so unfamiliar and unwelcome, and for a moment he's desperate to know what put it there, what was so bad to cause the mischief in sapphires to harden to ice. He wants to kick its ass.

"Just take the potion, Varric." The tease that used to carry his name is vacant from her voice, and he remembers to be angry.

"Fine," he snaps back, and the word is sour in his mouth. "I will. But if you don't mind, I'd like some privacy. I've some things to catch up on."

The icy set of her mouth deepens and she spins on her heel to leave him, without a single word. He glares at her retreating form long after she's slammed the door in her wake.

He takes a reluctant swig of the vial; it tastes, as suspected, like dragon dung.

It's not until later that he finds out that he's been unconscious for a full week, and that despite the grave, regretful tidings of the Inquisition's healers, the Inquisitor had gone off to infiltrate the Red Templars in search of a cure. A suicide mission she'd taken alone, idiotic martyr that she was. She'd returned a day later, soaked in blood, cure in hand.

The Red Templar stronghold had been decimated.

He'd woken four days later.

xXXx

"So I just supposed to let you die."

" _ Yes!" _

"Idiot," she says, and turns away from him. He'd been stewing with rage since Dorian had told him about it; it was only today that he'd been able to get out of bed without fainting like a damsel. The second he’d been able, he’d stormed down to her illustrious quarters to confront her; things were going swimmingly.

“Exactly! I’m an idiot, a dispensable idiot  _ not worth the life of the fucking  _ HERALD _ of Andraste!” _

She snorts at him, and he can’t fucking  _ remember  _ the last time he was this angry. It’s incomprehensible how quickly his temper snaps, like a string of a harp only she’d managed to pluck, and the fact that this won’t roll right off his back makes him inexplicably, unthinkably angrier. “Thought you didn’t believe in the Maker.”

“That’s not- that’s not what I- damn it, this isn’t the time!” Oh, what a time for his silver tongue to leave him. It’s been a long while since he’s had to resort to shouting to get anything said. He sucks in air, half-desperately, and his attempts to squash the wild flame of anger in his throat fail dramatically. She smirks at him, and even then it spins around in his head, shifting through currents of rage and exasperation to leave him foolishly off-balance.

“Never seen you stammer before,” she says, voice smooth and cool like a draught of water, and it’s mind-boggling because he is shouting at her and she looks  _ smug.  _ “And here I thought you were a dwarf of words.”

He’s all for snark in times of duress, but this is different, this is  _ her,  _ and all he sees when he looks at her is something that could be gone, gambled away, and for what? “Maker’s  _ balls,  _ Inquisitor, for once, and this is coming from  _ me,  _ could you be serious for a moment?”

There’s a delirious beat of silence in which Varric actually struggles to rein in his uncharacteristic temper, a muscle jumping in his clenched, stubbled jaw, and she turns to look at him. The sight stuns him; her expression is black, intense, icy fire spitting from her stormy blue eyes.

“My life is  _ mine, _ ” she says, and all too well Varric understands the fear in the enemies they come across. Her visage crackles in the light of the fireplace, flames fluid and dangerous across the sharpened planes of her face, and he glimpses that force of will, the raw power held trembling and lethal within her. “Do not dare to dictate what I’m to do with it. My decisions are  _ mine  _ to make, not a Maker’s, not a kingdom’s, and certainly not yours, Varric Tethras! It is my life, and I will decide what value it holds and for what it’s worth risking. Be it closing the rift, defeating Corypheus, or saving your sorry ass, I’ll do whatever the  _ hell  _ needs doing with or without  _ approval _ .”

By now, he’s gawking at her, struck dumb by the low and murderous depth in her words, and she stares down at him, a consuming light burning there that he should have never underestimated. 

"You want serious, here it is: when one of mine is on the line, I’ll do my damnedest to take them off it, and anyone who attempts to stop me will regret it. If you have a problem with that,  _ keep your ass off the line  _ and stay the  _ fuck  _ out of my way because Maker save you if you try to stop me.”

She gets to her feet, a tower of Qunari strength and imposition, and leaves him there.

Later, the others will bitch at him for ‘breaking their Inquisitor’. He replies to each of them, with honest good cheer, that if they have any problems with it, they can take it up with her themselves.

Oddly enough, no one does.

xXXx

Less than a month later, things are back to normal, almost. Sometimes Varric will stumble on a word or two when she gets that look in her eyes, sometimes he’ll stare at her a beat too long after the fight is over and the enemies are dead and the power in her voice is hidden away again. If anyone notices, they keep their tongue, and thank Andraste for that.


End file.
